


An Affair to Misremember

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Brief, Brilliant Miracles [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Bad Decisions, Developing Relationship, Duelling, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Honor, Negotiations, Personal Growth, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We just can't get over how important we are, as individuals--people, cities, families--to see what Antiva could be as a nation."</p><p>"I see it every time I look at you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Age is not mine, but these characters lend themselves so well to interpretation and re-interpretation. Here is a what if, along the lines of... '"What if Adorno Ciel Otranto hadn't been totally the chillest guy in history?" Mostly because Antiva is based on Renaissance Italy and I am dead obsessed with the place and time. Without further ado, here is part 1 of 4. Expect a new part roughly each night.

Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, a scion of House Montilyet of Antiva City and Ambassador of the new Inquisition of Thedas, slumped at her desk, head in hands. The source of her consternation lay in the dog-eared, crumpled parchment on the increasingly intimidating pile of papers in front of her. It seemed to grow each day, like the noxious, choking weeds on the verges of the canals back home during the spring and summer months, and it was all she could do to keep from being swarmed under by requests, memoranda and proclaimations. This final strand of silk broke the gurn's back, though, hardy as the beast might have been. It read:

_Dearest Lady Josephine:_

_Your presence is requested in Seleny for our engagement and subsequent wedding as soon as safe, swift transport can be arranged. I can be accomodating in this since the state of the world is so unstable, with the Rift in the sky and the war between the mages and Templars at fever pitch. The very flower of Antivan womanhood and manhood, and the best of our families, will be joined in our marriage and it was the greatest of the Maker's providence that led our parents to betroth you to me._

_Yours,_

_Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto di Seleny_

_PS. If you insult the honor of my family by reneging on this arrangement, I must seek satisfaction on the person of your father or one of your brothers. I regret this, but it is our way, amatta. You know it as I know it, as the river runs through the Weyrs to Rialto Bay_

Josie looked up from the words, hateful for all their kind eloquence, twisted a strand of dark hair around her finger once and again. "What shall I do about this?"

Cassandra, who slouched against the back of Josie's chair growled in disgust. "You will not give in to this scoundrel's demands, for one thing. Honestly! He acts as if you were a pair of prize Taslin Coursers to be brought together for foaling."

Varric, kicked back on her plush couch across the room, cackled. "He certainly seems to think that he's a hell of a stud, if nothing else."

Josie wrung her hands helplessly. "I have to do something, though. I can't let Adorno fight my father or either of my brothers."

Cassandra's brow furrowed. "Is he that fearsome?"

She shook her head. "My father is a man past his prime--over fifty and never a warrior, not really, for all that he was a Lieutenant in the Antiva City Condottieri. Antoine is barely more than a boy, he has not even won his spurs and ribbons yet, and Laurien and his wife have two toddlers and are expecting their third child. I cannot ask any of them to fight for me. No. If anything happened to them, in this way, I would die. If anything happened to them I would die, anyway."

Leliana, lounging next to Varric on the sofa, laid a pale finger next to her full, scarlet lips and mused. "You could travel to Seleny to visit Lord Adorno and make contact with his family, on Inquisition business if nothing else."

"I could Leliana darling, but I don't want to marry him."

"Of course not, dear." She made a dismissive gesture. "Terrible things can happen to a man between his engagement and wedding." She chuckled. It was a rich sound, dark as the chocolate they got as gifts from time to time from the far north in Bull's missives from Par Vollen. "It's not as if you'd be traveling alone."

Sera clapped and crowed from her perch, high up on one of the long room's rafters. It seemed a terribly precarious predicament to Josephine's way of looking at things, but so many things about the young elf from Denerim's way of living did. "I volunteer! Me! It's--yes!" She pointed to herself. "I'll go along and when he comes up to you all kneeling and kissness and 'ooh, I love you and mwah-ha-mwah' I'll go POP." She slammed a small tight fist into her palm. "Arrow in the balls."

Varric nodded his approval. "Just from a professional standpoint, one archer to another, that one would be one hell of a trick shot."

Sera shrugged. "Could be. Might just toss a jar full of bees on him, instead." She laughed herself closer to the edge of hysteria than where she always dwelt. "Dire bees. Either way would ruin the fuck right out of his day, wouldn't it?"

Josie's eyes, already large enough to have been the subject of sonnata in her home and Orlais, grew even wider. "Er, Sera... don't you think that the bees might ruin my day, too?"

She raised her nose primly. "Into every life, Lady Von Prissmilda, a little rain must fall. Or bees."

"Ooh, I have a splendid idea!" This was Dorian. There was not much to do, right now, with the Iron Bull, Cullen, Solas and Vivienne away with the Inquisitor on business in Citadelle du Corbeau and no one to play with or torment. "Why don't I go along? I can set this nasty little Otranto chap on fire for you, we can enjoy some capelleti and provatura fresca--I do so love Antivan food--and I can enjoy the beautiful, dark eyed boys of Seleny. I remember them doing such wonderful things with olives."

Leliana plucked at her piccolo mandolina--she carried it almost everywhere--and let the cheery notes to "Odes to Bees" buoy her musical, lilting laughter to the ceiling. "Dorian, darling... might the Iron Bull not appreciate your cavorting with the cream of Antivan manhood?"

He shrugged. "We can always wait until he comes back to depart, my sweet singing Nightingale. I'm sure that he would find their olives just as fascinating as I do."

Josie waved away their pleasant chatter. "We are growing rather far afield, my loves." Cassandra, at her shoulder, snorted agreement. "Besides, Dorian, you would not be allowed to use your magic in a proper, Antivan duel. Rapiers are the weapon of a gentleman, after all, and I'm fairly sure that you are not practiced with their use."

"Surely not, my dear, surely not." He clutched at his breast. "I am famous for my skill with the sword that the Maker gave me but not with any other."

"Euugh! Stop it!" Sera tossed a pebble at him, perhaps because no jars of enraged hymenoptera were at hand. "Stop it! No one cares abour your bleeding wang, hey?"

"There are literally entire schools of poets who disagree with you, my unkempt sweetheart. Poets, philosophers and men of science."

"You know..." Varric stroked his beardless chin. "If it was a bleeding wang then I think that the only ones who'd be really overly interested in looking at it would be doctors. Or vampires, maybe. They like blood."

Cassandra cracked her knuckles. "I hate rapiers. They're like trying to fight a man with a sylvan switch. Maybe if I was trying to cut a wisp, out in the Fallow Mire. Why in the Maker's good, clean world are Antivans so overly fond of the things?" She sighed. "No matter. We've been friends since you were no more than a maiden with embrium blossoms braided into your hair, and I knew your father even before that. I would be willing to stand for you in this matter, Josephine."

"Enough." It was Blackwall. He'd been leaning, silent, by the office's heavy, gilt beech door while everyone let their banter dance on the cool, mountain air. Much and more lay between the Ambassador and him, especially since his return with the Inquisitor from a mission to the Emerald Knight's ancient stronghold in Din'an Hanin, to the point that he'd convinced the Iron Bull to travel with the Inquisitor and Cullen to meet with Commader Jehan and his place. Bull, upon hearing how many Rifts were open there and the numbers of rage demons and lesser terrors that had been falling out of them, didn't require much in the way of persuasion. There were even rumors of a Gamordan Stormrider, in the Black Fens! It was almost more kindness and violence than an old Ben Hassrath could bear... and the chance for the Warden to not be much more than arm's length away from Josephine.

He rubbed his thick, gloved hands together. "You're bolder than a wyvern, Cassandra, and more ferocious than the Highland Ravager herself... but Lord Trevelyan would go mad if anything happened to you, and a fool's lucky thrust would slay you just as surely as Ser Cauthrien of Gwaren." They all nodded at mention of the woman who'd defeated even the famous Ravin Brosca, Hero of Fereldan, and a little shiver ran down Leliana's spine. "I'm his champion, his shield against all harm. If anyone is going to stand for Lady Montilyet in this matter it should be me."

Cassandra's hazel eyes narrowed. "Is that the only reason, ser?"

Josephine spoke up. "None of it matters. None of you will be standing for me, because there will be no duel."

"Surely you're not marrying him, Josie." Blackwall's heart sounded like it was crawling out of his throat.

She shuddered. "Certainly not, but I will not put anyone in my family--here or in Antiva City--in danger to avoid it." She drew her quill with a flourish. "You all fight so boldly with steel and I do the same, with pen and ink. These are my weapons as swords, arrows and shields are yours. I will arrange a meeting, the city of Lydes seems a likely place as we are well liked there, between Adorno, my father and myself." She smiled, radiant as the Sunburst Throne. "We shall settle this like civilized beings."

"Ruffles..." This was Varric. "Tell me that you're not going to be going all by your lonesome little self all the way to Lydes and meeting with a lovesick, possibly dangerous Antivan nobleman..."

"Why, no, Varric... I had thought to take you, Blackwall, perhaps Dorian..."

"Oh, thank Andraste. I used to know a girl--let's just call her Daisy--and she had some, er, bad habits. Things like, say, baking cookies for the local neighborhood toughs and leaving them on her, well... not dining room... er... single-room-hovel-room table... and leaving the door unlocked. I had to pay them a lot of good, Tethras gold to leave her alone." He heaved a deep breath. "I just don't know if I've got enough gold to buy you back from a lovesick, possibly dangerous--"

Josie giggled. "Don't worry, Varric. I won't get myself kidnapped."

"Well, good. I know that we dwarves are fabled for our riches, and all, but there are a limit to the coffers."

Sera somersaulted off her rafter and landed, lightly, in front of the desk. "Bitch sounds daft. Bet she's an elf."

"Why as a matter of fact, Buttercup, she is."

"Knew it." Sera knelt, or approximated it while crossing her eyes and thumbing her nose, in front of Josephine. "I want in. I wanna pledge my bow, or my arrows, or my arse cheeks, or somewhat."

"Excuse me?"

"I wanna go on your mission." She twisted. "Look. You're a friend, right? I like wrecking shit up with friends. I wanna go with you and, you know... wreck shit up. Like friends."

"You would be welcome, Sera." Josie smiled. "Just try to 'wreck shit up' quietly, if you can. We don't want Adorno to know we're coming, right?'

"Oooh, I get it." She winked. "We're doing this all sneaky like. I get you."

"Precisely. Now..." Josie waved her hands. "I love you all, but shoo. I need to write several letters, and I need to think." They began to file out. Varric, before he went, offered the Merchant Guild's odd little bobbing curtsey and Dorian, not to be outdone, a florid bow. Before Blackwall could escape Josie called to him. "Not you, ser... come closer." When he did, she slipped the glove from his hand and interlaced her fingers with his, pressed the back of his large, hairy hand against her cheek.

"Why am I here, my lady? Don't you need to think?"

"I do, Ser Warden, I do. I have much to do and not a great deal of time to do it in."

He chuckled. "I hope that I don't distract you over much. I've never been considered a great thinker. The Warden who recruited me saw a strong back, broad shoulders and a prodigious beard."

She laughed aloud. "It truly is prodigious, Ser Warden... but there is a proverb in my homeland. A bird sings sweetest in her own tree... and this song must be sweet indeed if Adorno is to heed it."


	2. Her Answer

Lydes, although certainly not the jewel in Celene's crown that Val Royeaux or The Winter Palace at Halamshiral was, certainly stood head and shoulders above Ferelden's muddy cities and keeps, even most of the Free Marches if Varric was being perfectly honest with himself. The streets were lined with bright, late summer flowers and lush trees, with each one ending in a small, square well tended park after the Tevinter fashion.

The shops were brilliantly white washed with shimmering azure trim and roofs, decorated with flaming sunbursts to celebrate the Valmont line, and the chantry could have if not challenged the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux (this would have been wildly inappropriate, to say the least, for any house of the Maker's but the dark spire of the Black Divine in Minrathous, of course), it did not at least shame its soaring sister to the north and west. Kirkwall's red, muddy streets, squat, square buildings and pervasive, oppressive monuments to human misery always seemed so... passe... in the face of Orlais' effortless grace. 

Sure, folks caught it in the rear end here, too--especially the ones who happened to have pointed ears--but, and he'd said this on more than one occasion to pull an aggravated squawk out of their Nightingale, the Orlesians managed to be awful to one another with a certain amount of style. 

Ah, well. Kirkwall, his late, lamented home was Thedas' number one producer of blood mages, psychotic murderers with an all too often literal axe to grind and abominations of all varieties. Hell, even Corypheus had been trapped up under there! Not every town could say that, Varric mused, not every town could say that. Only Aveline Vallen, the world's most stalwart woman, would have volunteered to be the Guard Captain of that mess; any sane creature, elf, dwarf, human or Vashoth would have to have been dragged into it, kicking and screaming, by a herd of Bronto. 

Not Aveline... she truly was a wonder of Thedas, the real kind, like a high dragon or Andraste herself (he wondered if this was blasphemy, decided against it), not a chintzy store run by Tranquil in Denerim's market district. Did Kirkwall know how lucky it was? Probably not. Places like that never did. But she'd force it through their thick skulls or crack those self-same skulls trying.

A light hand on his shoulder broke the winding caravan of this thoughts before they wandered too far, too unsafely, down the highways of the past. Dorian. "Hey, Sparkles... how's it going up there?"

"Pretty well, in spite of the thin, Orlesian air. I just thought I would catch you up with us before you got all the way to Caridin's Cross with your nugskin gathering." It was eerie how perceptive the man could be, from time to time. Varric wanted to put it off on his being an altus, and superbly skilled necromancer besides. If he could tease answers from the dead, then why not from the surface idylls of a kalnas merchant? "It's probably well that you look alive. I think that our distinguished guest has arrived. Or at least the one we're all dying to meet. The one we're hoping no one dies to meet hasn't graced us with his presence, yet."

"No kidding. So..." Varric examined the newcomer and his party as they moved at a stately pace up the main boulevard of Lydes. "This is Lord Yves Montilyet, our sweet Ambassador's father?"

"Indeed. I am looking most forward to seeing the man who raised dear Josie to be so imminently capable of keeping her head and losing it all at the same time."

"It's a shame that she's not here to greet him herself. I was lead to understand that they were close."

"Close indeed, my good surface deshyr, but not so close as she would prefer all our companions remain with their own precious vital fluids. She is at the house of Lady Monette's magistrate, druffaloing him into annulling her betrothal to Lord Adorno as we speak. Then we can retire to a fabulous dining house that I know of on the river, Marceau's, and dine on the most succulent shellfish ever known to grace the Maker's water."

Varric chuckled. "You never forget the important things, altus." He straightened his back, stood tall to greet an important dignitary and the beloved father of a close friend. "Look sharp--they're almost here."

Yves Montilyet arrived, flanked by two burly guardsmen in boiled leather armor and the gold and midnight tabards of his house. A physically unimpressive man in all ways, little taller than the dwarf, he wore cool ease to navigate the world like most men don a thin cloak in early spring when the wind still cuts chill. His eyes, large and dark as his daughter's, flickered from man to man, taking their measure. 

He nodded to Varric and Dorian, befitting the station of Antivan plutocrat and patriarch of House Montilyet. "Altus. Kalnaso. It's good to meet the men my daughter has written to much to me about; it's good also for you to travel with her in what I'm sure is a trying time. I hope..." His lips twisted in the shadow of a wry smile, in the midst of a well-trimmed iron-grey beard. "I hope that neither of you will be the man foolish enough to try to stand for her in some wild, valiant roll of the dice of honor. Adorno Ciel Otranto is a man most deadly with a blade and unafraid to use it."

Varric offered the Merchant's Guild bow, that bobbing dip unique to the dwarves of Orzammar and the surface of Southern Thedas. "Well met, Lord Montilyet. Your daughter is as beloved to you as she is to us, I'm sure, so we'll lay off on asking questions about this crazy marriage to an Antivan really happy about long knives. As for his deadliness..." Varric grinned. "Well, seriously, for the love of Andraste's eggs if he's really all that good with a sword then why doesn't he come south, to Skyhold? Or Griffon Wing? We've got no shortage of Venatori or Red Templars he can hack away at until his arm falls off."

"Aha, but that, my dear Master Tethras..." Lord Montilyet laid a finger beside his nose, "would be a more difficult task than young Lord Otranto is prepared to undertake. He is as frightened by all of this as anyone else but cannot bring himself to face it head on. Instead he retreats into the fortress of cavalleria, ready to kill or die for the sake of fulfilling a betrothal contract that I arranged with his father some years ago--and fulfilling it right this instant, no later--so that he can feel like he is doing something apart from watching other men fight and die or win glory."

"Tcha! Crazy damned northerner... you've all got boiling metal for blood."

He snorted. "If I wasn't far too old to be lead around by my own cavalleria I might demand some satisfaction for my own self, ser."

Dorian's handsome face darkened. "I might, too. That comment sounds suspiciously like bigotry. You don't see me trotting the world, demanding the immediate conclusion to marriage contracts or duels in lieu of them."

"Right, right, because you Tevinter boys don't have your own little odd entertainments around dark altars, under a full wvyern moon."

"And the noble castes of Orzammar don't, my friend, in the the darkest holes of Dustown or farthest corners of the Deep Roads?" Josie's father, this time, a wide grin splitting his weathered face.

"All right, all right, you make your point." He raised his hands in surrender. "At least I know where Ruffles' fast tongue came from."

"Ruffles?"

"Y'know..." He tugged at his magnificent chest hair. "On her dress."

"Indeed. Now," he cast his gaze around, "if I may ask, where is my precious daughter that I have traveled so far to meet?"

"At the house of the magistrate of this city's duchess, arranging to annull her betrothal to Lord Otranto."

Lord Yves said, "I could have saved dear Josie so much time. The betrothal contract has been a non-issue since her work with the Inquisition began, after she left the court of Empress Celene. It cost me the rights to trade cinnamon exclusively with the city of Afsaana and a blank escape clause from a Crow contract that my wife, Allegra, inherited from her grandfather. Adorno's father, Giovanni, is a man that can bargain... sharply."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Not as sharply as the Crows, I would imagine, if someone should call a contract on you, to which this whole nug and pony show might have been a prelude."  
He laughed. "You are witty, altus, but no. I would not have sold so dear a slip of paper if we did not have another stashed away like a fennec hides her kits. Josephine's happiness means much to me, the safety of Thedas and prosperity of House Montilyet means more, and her skill means much to you. In breaking this betrothal contract I have given you that skill, the greatest gift that House Montilyet can offer, more precious than all my ships, my trading contracts, anything I own."

Varric bowed. "We're honored more deeply than I can say."

"So why," Dorian said, "didn't you write ahead to let Josie know that you had handled this transaction? It can't just be the pleasure of making your daughter scramble around a mid-sized Orlesian city."

He shrugged. "The papers have not yet been signed, so I am letting her attend to that. I have, indeed, sent her sister Yvette to meet her at the magistrate's to let her know just that. Just as Adorno may need to satisfy his own cavalleria, though his family's honor is unblemished, I had to let Josie satisfy the needs of her own Andrastila."

Dorian's face grew clouded. "I'm not familiar with that term..."

"Andrastila," Varric said. "The quality of being like Andraste in purity, nobility, kindness..." He gave his friend a gentle clap on the shoulder and squeezed. "I'm not surprised you find it sort of foreign since you Imperial Chantry types don't appreciate many of her qualities other than 'flammable.'"

"We adore Andraste, in the north."

"Yes, as firewood."

"You're not being entirely fair."

"If the pyre fits..."

Lord Yves raised a hand. "Tranquilita, gentlemen. If you'll permit me to ask, since I fear it will come to violence between Lord Otranto and a champion for my daughter, if she cannot handle his wounded cavalleria in an adroit fashion, does your party have anyone in mind to stand for her?" He spread his hands. "You are both uncommonly fierce gentleman, but you are an archer, Master Tethras, and you a mage, Master Pavus... neither would fair well in a duel of swords. If no one is available then I shall appoint someone from my own personal bodyguard." He indicated the burly, well-disciplined soldati who had traveled from Antiva City with him.

Dorian heard the tread of heavy boots behind him and, grinning like a fool, spun to gestured towards Blackwall. "Ah, Lord Montilyet, this is a twist in the story to please even the fabled bards of Orlais or our storytelling dwarf friend, here. Your daughter is going to be represented in combat by this particularly magnificent thug."

Blackwall growled, deep in his throat. "I'm not sure I quite appreciate that description."

"But I mean it only in the spirit of love, dear Warden."

"I'm sure."

"Tall as a Rivaini cedar, broad as the Waking Sea... you must be the Blackwall that my daughter has written me about." Yves Montilyet inclined his head. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Blackwall bowed to the small Antivan merchant. "Your daughter does you and your family honor each day, my lord."

"So I have been told. It is true, but that does not mean that I ever mislike hearing it."

"I imagine the Tevinter here was telling you, if it comes to that pass, I will stand against Lord Otranto for her."

"He was, but it may not. We can all pray to the Maker than Josephine proves more persuasive than does Adorno's wounded pride, and that he goes to the magistrate and sends his seconds here."

This was not to prove the case, however. Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto, dressed from head to toe in black leather and trailing the scarlet cape of House Otranto of Seleny, swept up the main street of Lydes to the square in which they met. A servitore and three soldati of his father's retinue stood to hand, the first with papers pertaining to the betrothal and duel. He was a tall man with lean hips and the hard muscle that came from hours spent in the salle des armes from early childhood. He bowed deeply, swept his cloak in a bright flourish, and stood tall again. "Greetings to you, Lord Montilyet. My fathers send his, as well, and his pleasure at well concluded negotiations."

Lord Yves twirled a finger beside his steely gray curls. "If Lord Giovanni was not pleased at our negotiations then I would not think him well."

Giovanni clasped the older man's shoulder. "Your wit remains as sharp as my blade, Lord Yves. May it ever be so." He turned to examine the companions from Skyhold. "You must be the compatriots of my former bride to be. I recognize Master Tethras of Kirkwall and Master Pavus of Tevinter..." He stepped closer to Blackwall than was entirely comfortable. "Could you be the Warden-Constable Blackwall that travels in her company?"

Blackwall grunted. "Why yes, I do suppose I could be him."

"Quite." He circled the Warden. "You are a man blessed by the Maker with humor. Under the right circumstances we might have gotten along well." He tugged off one of his soft, black leather gloves.

"I do a lot of traveling in the dark, dangerous places of the world--forgotten ruins crawling with darkspawn, Venatori hide-outs, that kind of thing. I'm not really sure where else we might have met." Blackwall shifted his considerable, rangy weight onto his rear foot. "Now, are you going to slap me with your glove like they do in songs?"

"Slap you?" Adorno seemed honestly confused. "These are the tales that Marchers tell of us? Tcha. That would be the height of rudeness, my friend. I will offer it to you." He did; Blackwall accepted. Something shifted deep in the ground, high in the heavens. "You are aware of the laws governing these matters?"

"We fight. One of us will live through it, the other won't."

"It does not have to come to that, Warden. One may yield."

"Are you likely to?"

"As likely as Mount Ambrosia is to migrate to Minrathous. You?"

"Will Hasmale ever sit comfortably in the grip of Pentaghast kings?"

"Then one of us must lie bleeding on the ground before this is concluded." Adorno recovered his glove from Blackwall, tugged it over his slim, well-manicured hand. "Such is the perfidy of women."

"Or the vanity of men."

"But in the end, all we are left with is our vanity. Thus reads one Canticle of Maferath." He fingered the hilt of his rapier. It was finely wrought with silver filigree, befitting a man of his station. "I see that you do not wear a sword today."

Lord Yves spoke. "One will be provided for him from my retinue." He gestured to one of his soldati. "Aurelio, your blade."

He drew his weapon, simpler but similar in style to the one Otranto bore. Blackwall tested it with a few swings and thrusts. A solid, satisfying blade. It would do as well as any other for this. Each task called to the tool that suited it, and a blade magically forged in Arlathan with superb cleansing runes would be cheapened by this. "Thank you, serah. I'll bear this as honorably as you've done for your lord."

"A wearer of the Grey could do no less, messere."

No more words. They squared off where the streets met. Adorno drew his sword, and the servitore began to read. "In the matter of the breaking of the betrothal of Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet di Antiva City to Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto di Seleny..."


	3. Their Discussion

Aurelio stood beside his young compatriot from Lord Yves complement of soldati, Carlo, teaching him the ins and outs of bodyguard duty. It wasn't hard work and usually, except in the not unheard of but rarer than it used to be--even in Antiva--case of assassination attempt tended to be more of an aesthetic than practical assignment. This was why big men like Aurelio, his brother Tenebrio before him, and young Carlo were chosen so that they could intimidate footpads, cutpurses and ne'er-do-wells of every variety into deciding against harassing Lord Yves on the road. 

Tenebrio had gone down in front of a bolt of Tevinter magic eighteen months before, though, during a precarious crossing of the border, in the contested mountains between western Antiva and the Imperium, to trade at Marothius. He was dead before he hit the dusty trail and Aurelio had followed, hamstrung by the maleficar's bandit allies. They fought like demons, the lord included. He remember ripping into one's groin from where he lay on the ground, the sickening squelch of it. He still felt, from time to time on a sweltering, sweaty night, the hot blood and loops of bowel on his face, remembered how awful it smelled. Felt a little guilty stabbing a man in the balls like that. Wasn't so bad, though, when he learned later on that it was the maleficar who'd blown his brother to hell in oily little chunks. You did a lot of things to stay alive, and some of them you weren't really proud of, but the Maker gave you one back once in a while.

Now he had trouble walking, limped around like a man of sixty years no matter how much of the Fade Lord Yves' healer poured into his leg, and would give his spot in the company to Carlo as soon as he trusted him to do those things that wouldn't make the girls squeal and sigh but would, when blade met bone, get the man Aurelio had loved like another brother back from their caravan journeys. Carlo could train another man, just as Aurelio had trained him. Aurelio himself... well, fishing was nice. His promised slice of Yves'profits would buy him a piece of a decent house and a fine Rivaini woman with big, dark eyes and and even bigger arse to keep company with, too, but fishing... not much could compare to it.

One of Otranto's soldati clapped him on the shoulder, broke his reverie. "Aurelio! It's been years.. do you remember me, fratello?"

Aurelio turned, narrowed his eyes. His bearded face split in a wide grin. "Raude! I'll be a gurgut's vomit! How are you? How is Brona? Your children?" He offered his hand.

Raude took his wrist, in the old handshake shared by mercenari all over Thedas. "Brona is well in her body, as beautiful as when we married. Scorio is grown now--taking work with brigatas himself--and young Brona is breaking hearts in the village. We lost little Aria to Tellari Fever last summer and Brona is taking it hard. I have not heard her sing since."

"A grief. When m'lady Allegra lost a child before it was born..." Aurelio shook his head. "I speak out of turn, but it was many months before she would do more than wander the palazzo like a phantasm. She did not smile again until Lady Yvette was born." He squeezed his friend around the shoulders. "Know that I grieve with you and will visit you after this campaign is done."

"Thank you, old friend. Now..." He smiled, under his bushy mustache. It was the Raude that Aurelio had fought with and against for years. "If you are still a betting man, and I cannot imagine you are not, who do you think wil take this combat?"

Aurelio stroked his stubbled chin. The combatants circled, in no hurry. No time limit was imposed on the duel and the results of foolhardy flailing were apt to be fatal. "The two men are of a height, though Lady Josephine's Warden is much heavier and broader. That's not as great an advantage in these circumstances, but by the Maker look at his shoulders... what a pike-breaker he would make!"

"And he could still end the fight with one well placed blow to sheer Lord Adorno from collar to crotch. Observe their weapons." Although the weapons were not heavy longswords, which a champion like Blackwall would be most comfortable with, they were cut and thrust blades, not patterned after the light, swift feuilles des formations found in every salles des armes in Antiva, Tevinter and Orlais and the hands of each noble child of those nations from the time they could toddle. A thrust to throat, groin or belly would still be most deadly, especially in the supple leather clothing both men sported, but the long, heavier blades could still deliver a vicious cut even on bony, muscular limbs.

"Ah, my friend, but he will move slower, and not just due to his greater weight. Note his beard, the snow that is admixed with soot. Warden Blackwall is no decrepit ghoul, but he is no raw recruit either. I see him tire already, the tip of his blade drooping, the mighty shoulders sag. I will put a silver madrigal on my Lord Adorno."

Aurelio laughed. "Loyalty, my friend! You break the code of Antivan mercenari... we've been contracted for too long. Where you see torpid age I see canny strategy... I'll see your madrigal and place one on the Warden. He is, after all, fighting with my sword."

He had an instant of fear when Adorno drew first blood, at the next pass, with a low, sweeping cut. Blackwall stumbled, recovered, and drove his opponent back with a thrust at his vulnerable face. Even in Orlais, after all, most Antivan nobles did not go masked. The Warden tested his leg, found it sound in spite of the dark stain spreading above his knee, and crabbed towards what he thought the other man's weaker side. "Ha!" Aurelio pounded his first into his palm. "If your lord had pressed his advantage you might have been a madrigal richer. He was too worried about a cut on his gorgeous face."

"What is the point of being the handsomest man in Seleny if you're just going to let someone slice half your face off? The maidens wouldn't like it very much." Raude shrugged. "We've never been beautiful, so we can't know for sure. Your man is moving well on a bad looking leg, though."

He was feeling it on each step, blood pooling in each boot, and on the next pass caught another shallow gash along his ribs. Blackwall looked down, expecting to find himself flayed open deeply enough to see the rise and fall of his own lungs, but discovered that it was a flesh wound and the searing came from within. It had been a while, he suspected, since he'd fought anyone really worth fighting, at least without support from the other members of the Inner Circle. The sight of Adorno, pouring blood from a gash in the short leather apron he wore around his hips, was gratifying at least. He wouldn't go down, spitted like a boar, without at least marking this subtle, quick bastard. 

"Now," Raude said, "that'll slow Lord Adorno down a little bit, too. He was beginning to look like arlecchino, dancing all spritely around poor burattino."

"You sound like you don't want to win your madrigal now, fratello."

"It wouldn't have felt right if it didn't come cleanly, Aurelio. The wine I'd have spent it on would have been sour, the whore would have been ugly, the fish stew would have turned in my stomach. An all around awful thing."

The next pass proved the last. Aurelio could not decide if the Warden was an aging warrior, slipping in his own blood on the cobblestones, or a shrewd demon of misdirection, fresh from the Fade, at the height of his powers. He ducked and shaded to the left, just a hair, less than that, avoided catching two feet of cold, blue steel through his throat and had it hang in the mighty sinew of his shoulder. With Adorno so entangled he stepped forward, through sheer grit, and further wrapped the heir to Seleny in a one-armed bear hug (bear mauls the wolves, Aurelio remembered a chevalier telling one of Lord Yves' two household cavalieri, one knight before a roaring fire). 

Blackwall thrust his knee through the fork of his opponent's thighs--all men present winced in appreciation--and bore them to the ground. He screamed his throat raw at the sword tearing upward, in the fall's force, driving to the hilt through his body. Aurelio had only seen a few genlocks, one hurlock, maybe, during the Great Blight, as Antiva had been mercifully spared its greatest wrath. If this was not the greatest of the Wardens, though, and that was surely Ravin Brosca... he could not help but feel twinges of sympathy even for the Archdemon Urthemiel.

All pretense of dueling fell away. Blackwall punched, a common brawler in the much, a hog in the sty, and struck thrice with the bell of his rapier against Adorno's unprotected face. He lolled, helpless, eyes rolling back into his head. Blood poured from his shattered nose, over his forehead, to mix with sweat and make long hair lay limp against the street. Geography in his face rose and fell. Blackwall stood, staggered a few steps, threw his sword down and sank to one knee. His clothing clung darkly, damply, to his body.

Varric, Lady Josie's kalnas companion, tugged Aurelio's jacket. "Andraste's period blood, is it over?"

"I... do not know." Raude. "I don't. Adorno is alive, and he has not yielded, but he cannot continue. Your Warden does not fair well, either."

"I'll say. He looks like he just got run over by an ogre. Shit!"

Adorno struggled to rise, could not make it to his elbow. Blackwall followed suit and returned to his knee. Lord Yves raised his hand. "Enough. Since the incident at Kirkwall's chantry there have been enough good men dead for reasons they though good enough to die for. You two need not join them. This will have satisfied any need of cavelleria. I will swear to it as a prince of Antiva."

"Maker's balls... er... if He has em." Someone punched Aurelio in his other shoulder, a cute little knife-ear like Raude's wife. They said that you could not tell, in the second generation, but he thought that it explained why so many young men found young Brona so irresistible. Something around her eyes. This one had truly unfortunately cut hair, like someone had done it with a flaming rock, possibly out of revenge. "Are they alive? Dead? It looks like someone bled a fooking pig out there."

Before he could answer, two shapes hustled past them. Both were slim as tongues of flame, arrayed in gold and midnight, holding the hems of dresses out of the ruin that had become of the well kept cobblestones of Lydes' main boulevard. Yvette knelt by Adorno and gathered his bleeding head onto her lap. "You poor man! All this done to you while you were just trying to defend the very flower of Antivan womanhood." She dabbed at his brow with a white linen handkerchief. It did little more than grow crimson, and then darken further to almost black, but if he understood anything of what transpired probably did much to assuage his wounded ego if not skull. Aurelio thought that she had probably been waiting to do this since she was about six years old.

Her sister, conversely, was not interested in Blackwall's wounds, physical or otherwise. "You great, bumbling oaf!" She tore her hair from its usual, well-wrapped bun. "You could have been killed, or killed Lord Otranto, or he could have had assassins in the crowd to kill my father or... or..." 

Tears stood silver in her eyes. She raised her fists to strike him, finally judged the extent of his injuries, how he slumped against a decorative frieze of Maferath's betrayal, how he looked worse than the traitor, and lost the impetus of her assault. "You... you have a sword in your shoulder. Why has no one seen to this? Why is the only care being received by Lord Otranto a misremembered lullaby in butchered Rivaini?" She turned to the assembled crowd and snapped her fingers. "Someone call a healer!"

The servitore, Mignioli, stepped forward. "If I may?"

"But of course."

"I am an apostate, in service to Lord Otranto's father for many years. If your sister could relinquish his poor, battered head for just a moment..."

"Oh, certainly, serah." Yvette loosened her grip on Adorno. Mignioli knelt by him and let Fade energies pour onto the young man. They danced around his hair, up his nose, into his ears and through his eyelashes.

Moments later the servitore stood, shaking his head. "He'll sleep for a few hours but be none the worse for wear. It is a lucky thing. Your Warden's battery caused a swelling in his brain. Had I not treated him, he'd have been dead by morning."

Dorian, who had sauntered over to offer his healing efforts on Blackwalls behalf, waved to the Antivan mage. "Good fellow... would you be so kind as to give a look to this Warden you insist on referring to as mine? I'd appreciate it. He seems to be rather carved up at the moment..."

Mignioli did so, removing Adorno's rapier with a hearty tug from Aurelio and Carlo and closing the worst of of his cuts--including a heretofore unknown one, on the high inside of his forearm, which had severed nerves and flayed the flesh open deeply enough to reveal pale bone. It was the servitore's professional opinion that Blackwall would always feel his shoulder injury on cold, rainy mornings and likely never raise his left arm high, above his head, again.

"Luckily it's my shield arm," Blackwall said. "I wear a thick helmet and have a hard head, so I don't have much need to get it up that high."

"You have a hard head indeed, serah." Josephine. "Why couldn't you and Adorno wait to start flailing on each other until I arrived? Yvette and I had worked something out. She seems to be proceeding apace with it, considering he cannot fight back very well, if his brains do not leak out of his ears..." She huffed, paused to catch her breath, and then peered into his eyes. "What possessed you to do this? I was coming. My father had settled the debt of money, it was up to me to settle the debt of honor."

"What if you couldn't? I was terrified that Lord Otranto would use that cavalleria nonsense to force you into something you didn't want to do."

"To outmanouvre me in the customs of my own nation?" She laughed. Much as he usually enjoyed the music of it, Blackwall found this particular trill grating at his last nerve. "Warden Blackwall, if I'd provided a satisfactory alternative and he'd still insisted on a duel then I'd have taken him before the Corte d'Onoranza in Treviso--on which both our fathers sit, in addition to uncles, aunts and cousins removed twice. If he'd demanded blood on the ground instead of gold in coffers..." She shuddered. "Adorno could have lost his position as heir instead of you very nearly an arm and leg.

"I didn't want you to take the chance--"

"It was my chance to take! You fight dragons and demons and Red Templar behemoths and things that I cannot even read about without having nightmares about fleeing them in Haven's wreckage, but I can fight petulant nobles from Antiva. It's my life, it's my family's life... it's what we do. It's what I do."

"Pace, nuvoletta tempesta." Lord Yves offered his hand, and the kestrel crest on House Montilyet's ring, to his oldest daughter and heir. "Do not allow the clumsy thunderings of this Marcher to obscure what he would have done, almost did for you. He thought your safety was at stake and almost died for it. That is courage, even if that of a fool." He tossed a glittering, dark wink at Blackwall. A little of the words' sting dissipated, even if only a little.

She curtseyed low and kissed the kestrel. "Si, papa. I've got to go and think about this. I hope that Yvette does not accidentally strangle Adorno while I am gone." She smiled wryly. "That was a nice piece of work, I think, if nothing else was on this blighted morning."

"It was, daughter, indeed." He chuckled. "I supposed you might consider it when I sent her ahead to meet you, looking fresh and alluring as the dawn breaking in Ayesleigh." He took her arm. "I will walk you to our suites. There's much to do before our dinner at Duchess Monette's estate, tonight... and, besides, Giovanni and I have another engagement and wedding to plan."

Blackwall watched them go, shifted his weight a little off the wounded leg, and winced at new pain in his wounded arm. He shook his head. "Bloody mad Antivans. You really can't live with them, but I wouldn't ever really want to live without them again, either..."


	4. Denouement

Late that evening, in the soft, dancing glow of a hundred candles, the combined parties sat before a long, low table laden with ribollita, the hearty white bean and root vegetable soup of Seleny, and Antiva City's famous, spicy cioppino with cinnamon, nutmeg and fiery, red peppers imported all the way from Par Vollen. Cieche, newborn eels and black cabbage, had been served before, then born away by elven servers so that they could enjoy the bounty of what was left over. Each dish was accompanied by goblet after goblet of strong, sweet claret, merlot and pinot from the Montilyet vineyards. He had come to see to the business of his daughter, yes, but Yves Montilyet had not maintained his position in difficult times by avoiding a business opportuinty like Monette of Lydes. The sweet, silly duchess, for her part, was blushing prettily at the old serpent and promising extravagance that her chamberlain would surely pare into sensibility, come morning, but it was equally unthinkable that Lord Yves would emerge the loser in these negotiations, as in any others. 

It had been a fine idea, Varric considered, for the Inquisition to place this city in her charge instead of her cousin Caralina or uncle Jean-Gaspard. Maybe Varric was biased--it it had been his idea, after all--but he sort of liked how things had worked out in the end. The chevalier was a hard, cruel man and would have been useful in the field but... they had no shortage of capable commanders. Caralina was shrewd but not trustworty and Monette... well, there was room for kindness in the world, wasn't there? And Lydes had become a valuable base for the Inquisition, especially for the business of dealing with those who could not make the arduous journey to Skyhold.

Lord Adorno, awake from his magically enforced nap, doddered a little vaguely over his bowl and supped whatever spoon or cup Yvette pressed to his lips. She would not suffer any servant to care for him, in her stead, and for his part he assayed the occasional weak jape which at which she dutifully giggled. Room for kindness. Wasn't this, the great hall of this palace where dinners were held, alliances cemented and family bonds reinforced, a room for kindness? Varric smiled broadly. He sort of liked that; it might fit well in a story.

Lord Yves, finished with his bowl of cioppino and nursing a claret before the serving of a pafte imperiale consisting of almonds and plums, glanced over at him. "You seem well pleased with yourself, Master Tethras. Have you acquired a business for your enterprise, today, to compete with me in this fine city?"

"No, messere." Varric sipped his own wine. "I was just thinking about how things had turned out--for the best I hope. One of your daughters will be married, linking two of Antiva's powerful merchant families. Your heir remains an influential officer of the Inquisition. You retained trading rights in important places and opened a new market for yourself. If I was a betting dwarf, and I am incidentally, I wouldn't mind placing a few madrigals on you having planned this whole thing from beginning to end."

"Some of have bet on my ventures, yes. More than a few have gained, but one or two have lost stacks of gold andris tall as your crossbow. I'm no prognosticator." He drank deeply and motioned for a slender elven man to refill his cup. "Things had to potential to end poorly today, in spite of my best efforts with Lord Giovanni. I saw an opportunity for net gain instead of gross loss. You are a businessman, Master Tethras, just as I am. What would you have done?"

"Blackwall and Adorno came damned close to killing each other. Neither of us was singing winged pigs over Minrathous when we talked about enough good men and women being dead since my old pal Blondie sent the Kirkwall Chantry back to the Maker... why would you risk it? How could you?"

"Because my stepping in would have made things worse, Master Tethras, don't you see? Lord Adorno's cavelleria would not have been satisfied and he could not have accepted Josephine's proposal that he court Yvette in her stead--which would have made my youngest daughter's shriek's audible from Rialto, for another thing." He smiled fondly at the girl, still fussing over her paramour. She tore off little chunks of heart, black bread to feed him. "Two of Antiva's powers would have been flinging assassins' darts at each other instead of the minions of Corypheus. Would this have been preferable, to you?"

"I, just... it doesn't seem quite right, somehow."

"Was it right that Endrin Aeducan did not step in to prevent the murder of his sons, Trian and Duran, by their brother Bhelen? Or that the hero Ravin Brosca murdered a righteous man like Pyral Harrowmont in his own estate so that the scoundrel Bhelen could assume the throne? Or that he treated with the madwoman Branka and the forgotten war criminal Caridin to defeat Urthemiel?"

"Yeah, but that was all about his sister, mostly, and Nightingale tells me there was a kid involved..." Varric sighed. 

"There's always a child involved, something precious that cannot be endangered."

"Yeah, a kid or... something, I guess. That's just Orzammar. Dwarva live and breathe this nonsense, especially deshyri but even your lowest duster, as you can guess from Brosca's story."

"Everywhere is just Orzammar and we all scrape like deepstalkers at a dragon's skeleton."

"I guess." Varric motion for more claret, wished it was something cold and only nominally potable from the Hanged Man. Sometimes you really did miss Kirkwall. No one stabbed you in the back, there; blood mages, abominations and lyrium deranged Templars all had to decency to rend you limb from limb straight up with no chaser. "It doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I don't think any of us do."

He laughed, finally. "My lord, I don't think you've gotten to know a good friend of your daughter's, at least not very well. Her name is Sister Leliana, the Nightingale I mentioned before." He tugged at his mat of chest hair. "How soon do you think that Lord Adorno and your daughter will be ready to travel? I think I might be getting one of my brilliant notions."

"It could be some days before his head injuries are fully recovered enough to brave the roads--your Warden punches like the Arishok. I am going to leave them here in the care of his servitore, to talk to each other if nothing else. What is on your mind?"

"If you think that he can handle it and wouldn't object, the Inquisition always needs good men. I don't mean as a front line fighter--though we wouldn't turn down one of those, either--but as a trainer." He grinned. "I don't suppose we ought to station the two of them at Skyhold. It might get a little awkward, around the forge, but a man as skilled as Adorno could be a blessing from the Maker teaching his wizardry with a blade to our recruits at Redcliffe or Crestwood. Hell..." Varric laughed. "Half those lads barely have 'grab the handle, stick em with the point end,' down pat by the end of their basic. We need the help."

With tremors in his head and hands Adorno struggled to replace his cup of claret, guide Yvette's hand away from his mouth, and speak. "I would be... honored to teach... your recruits... Master Tethras. The Breach and Ancient Magister are... grave threats." He sagged, heaved a heavy breath, and let Yvette support him by leaning against him. "I will go to Redcliffe, Crestwood, Skyhold or the Fallow Mire, even. Wherever you need me. The Inquisition... is a place where good men and women fight. I will fight with them." He smiled wanly. "Maker help me if I ever decide to fight against any more of them."

Yvette beamed, dark eyes shimmering, her face a rounder echo of Josephine's, eight year's younger, and pressed her lips to Adorno's cheek. He winced, but she did not seem to notice. "You are so brave, my love! Where you go I follow--even to the ends of the Hissing Wastes or across the Waking Sea. We will make a life there, together, proudly representing Antiva against the depredations of the Ventatori!" Her voice rang, right in his ear. 

Lord Yves sighed. "A good solution, although Maker preserve me when I Giovanni and I tell our wives that we will be traveling south for a wedding."

Varric, for his own part, wondered if the poor boy knew what kind of ride he was in for. He decided the discretion was the better part of valour, though, and decided to toast instead and quote himself. "All's well that ends well, my friends."

Sera, at the far end of the table, had leapt up on it and was regaling them with the adventures of Warden Blackwall. She pranced, kicked and twirled between the plates, bowls and cups, deftly avoiding catastrophe in soft, pointed shoes. "So no shit, there we was, and there's this enormous dragon, right? A high dragon, or stoned dragon, or baked dragon, or some shit. And it jumps up like, 'oy, mate, fuck you.' But Blackie jumps up, like, 'oy, mate, I fucked your mother.' Well, he didn't say that, quite. He said it close. Dragons do have mothers, don't they? They lay eggs. They say that the big ones are girls. They're lady dragons, like Lady Shayna down by Redcliffe. One of King Callie-had's pieces she was. The lady, not the dragon. Ugh, they give me a boner, they do. Dragons. So fierce, like bottled lighting. A ladyboner fierce. Anyway, he says, 'oy, mate, I fucked your mother,' and the dragon doesn't get much more than a few swipes at us with them big ol' claws before she starts crying, or some shit, and Tadwinks is able to chase her back into her hole like a toad with a few warding spells." She grinned. "And that's the story of how we handled the Sandy Howler." Varric, clapping along with all the rest, wondered if he might cede the position of official storyteller and record keeper to this young firebrand.

Aurelio, Raude and the Otranto soldati were howling laughter, but Carlo looked confused. "Tadwinks? Who is this great knight-enchanter?"

Sera rolled her eyes and slapped the side of her head. "His Inquisitorialness, duh. Honestly your skull's thicker than dragonbone, Carly-poo."

"Excuse me, excuse me..." Mignioli raised a finger. "You call the Herald of Andraste, healer of the sky... Tadwinks?"

"Yeah..." Sera giggled. "I found out that his big sister Evelyn used to call him Cooter, but Cassandra said if I didn't stop calling him that she was going to, er, I think it was skin me alive and feed me my own guts. Yeah, that was it. So I changed things. I'm flexible like that, but not enough to eat my own guts. Eugh."

"By the Black City, you people are all as mad as hissing lurkers." 

Lord Yves drummed his approval at her antics. "You're a natural comedienne, Sera. I almost wish that I had brought my columbina, from Antiva City. You could have taught her a trick or two."

"Shame on you!" She wagged a finger at him. "You ought not have one of those concu...bina things. Josie's mum is probably much too nice a lady to do that way."

Lord Yves looked shocked a moment, worked his jaw in a futile attempt to explain, and then let himself dissolve into helpless gales of laughter. Sera just cocked her head. "Wot? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. Wot?" On second thought, Varric decided, maybe it wasn't quite time to hang up his quill yet.

On a quiet bench cloaked in shadow, in another corner of Lydes' grand manse, Blackwall slumped against the joining of two walls, nursing a flask of Chasind sack meade. It burned sweetly, late summer or lost love in his throat, but he knew it would rest poorly in his gut that night. 

He wondered about something his mentor used to talk about, a ritewine that the Warden Anras claimed to taste like bottled whimsy. Was that the kind of thing that lead to a man with one arm in a sling, the near dead from the elbow down (the feeling would return in a day or two, the servitore reasurred him), a fire along his ribs and above his knee--all that for what amounted to nothing? The old man would known; he knew almost everything. Blackwall just knew how to fight, how to hit things he thought needed hitting to protect those that didn't. If it lead to a good end, so be it. To an early grave? No such thing. The only thing a man had to fear was his own failure. The Maker took you when He did.

Josephine sat beside him, drew her knees to her chest, hugged them close. Her hair was drawn back into its usual, well-disciplined coil, but he remembered how it had fallen into a frazzled disarray earlier and could have almost laughed at the absurdity of the sight, how she ran flapping from place to place but still managed to hammer out a treaty and arrange for the care of two grievously wounded men. She obsfucated, with a dizzy, easy manner, to hide what a good diplomat she really was. Perhaps that was the secret. She sighed. "What a day this has been. You are cut to pieces, Adorno is half dead... can I do anything right?"

"Well, the pieces he cut off me were small ones--not too important--and Messere Otranto only made it halfway to the Maker. Besides..." He chuckled. "Your sister looked happy enough."

"Yes, I suppose Yvette would. She had the most enormous infatuation with Adorno when she was the littlest thing. He would give her kisses and sweets after practicing at swords with Laurien."

"Your brother is a duelist, too? Does his skill match Adorno's?"

"They were even, when I last saw them spar."

"Maker's breath... forget the Crows, how has anyone ever conquered you Antivans at all?"

She offered a wry smile. "We are devilish in single combat, but are poorly suited to operating in groups. It seems that we cannot stop stabbing each other long enough to handle an enemy army."

"That would certainly be poor for logistics. Much like the Wardens' sickness for eldritch secret keeping."

"But at least you have a good reason! The foundations of the world would shake if everyone knew what you did about the darkspawn. We just can't get over how important we are, as individuals--people, cities, families--to see what Antiva could be as a nation."

"I see it every time I look at you."

She blushed. "Yes, well... I am imperfect as anyone. A vessel flawed and cracked. If I had not stopped to chat with Lady Monette, or had pulled my sister from the dress shop window an instant faster, or..." She let her head droop a moment, then went on. "I could not imagine he would be so offended as to demand the duel today. I thought tomorrow morning, at the earliest, and I would be able to smooth things out tonight. We would suffer an awkward dinner but no other ill-effects. Perhaps it was that Father had already solved the debt between our families, making Adorno feel powerless... but that makes no sense." She clenched her fists. "If the debito famiglia had not been erased then the debito d'onore would have been meaningless. Our fathers could have done nothing else."

"Perhaps that's what we must remember." Blackwall tugged his beard, glad his good hand could manage this and that Mignioli's prediction about his recovery was not just so much talk. "The world is strange, right now. I'm sure that Adorno does feel powerless--I know I do and I stand at the left hand of the only man who has any hope of setting things right."

"You are the last man that I would call powerless. You have withstood the charge of giants. That is not powerless."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." She laid her head against his good shoulder, carefully laced her fingers through his, making sure that it did not aggravate the recuperation of his arm. "Still, I appreciate what you did today, or tried to do. Even if things became as great a disaster as Ostagar."

"Not quite that great. We survived without the intervention of a Witch of the Wilds."

"True. Though I have always wanted to see Yavana, ever since I was a child."

"Those who have tell me it's a sight to be avoided, though they might have been exaggerating."

She let her eyes slip shut. "Perhaps when this is all over we can go and look for her together. A grand adventure, mi caro, for the two of us. Maybe Varric..." She yawned. "Sera..."

He smiled. The first bright spot on this blighted day. "That sounds like the best idea anyone's had in ages. When this is all over... it sounds too good to be true." She didn't answer. The deep, even character of her breathing told the tale of a woman asleep. He let her rest against him, though neither arm was in good enough shape to hold her. Sweet moments stolen out of chaos, fragile as a candle flame fluttering between false dawn and true.


End file.
